


A Better Bargain Driven

by Lomonaaeren



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Arts, Death Eaters, Dubious Consent, Horcruxes, M/M, Please do heed the warning, Sexual Bargains, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-05-28 00:01:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6305569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonaaeren/pseuds/Lomonaaeren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years of war. Draco’s forgotten what it’s like to want something possible. But now, he has two things: the possibility of freedom from the Dark Lord, and Harry Potter’s arse. Perhaps not in that order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hath No Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Written for prompt [#64](http://dracotops-harry.livejournal.com/310118.html?thread=3477606#t3477606) for the [Draco-tops-Harry-Fest](http://dracotops-harry.livejournal.com/).
> 
> Thank you for such an intriguing prompt, centopiedi. I hope the fic pleases! Thanks much to my betas, Linda and Karen. The title for this fic comes from the Sir Philip Sidney poem quoted at the beginning.
> 
> **Warning: there is heavy dub-con at the beginning. Read at your own risk.**

_My true love hath my heart, and I have his,_  
_By just exchange one for another given:_  
_I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,_  
_There never was a better bargain driven:_  
_My true love hath my heart, and I have his._

\- Sir Philip Sidney, “The Bargain.”

 

Draco stood with his eyes fixed on the Muggle. He watched strips of blackened skin pulling away from her bones. He watched as her eyes turned to slugs and wriggled down her face. He watched as her bones broke, one by one, and built themselves into a white cage atop her sternum.

He didn’t move. He didn’t flinch. He looked, and applauded politely when the torture was finished, along with the other Death Eaters who had stood vigil for this execution.

“Leave, Malfoy.”

The Dark Lord’s voice washed over him like cold sewage. Draco crouched and touched his head to the floor, aiming at the throne in the corner, and then backed out of the room on his hands and knees.

When he could stand up again, he cast a charm on his knees that rid them of dirt. Nothing could get the feeling of submission out of his mouth, but, well, that was something he would have to get used to, wasn’t it?

Draco wandered down the corridors of what had been his home. They were empty at the moment, with the Death Eaters either watching the torture games or gone on missions. Draco still didn’t think it felt like home, and that had nothing to do with the empty spaces on the walls where portraits of his ancestors had once hung. It had felt nothing like home since the moment the Dark Lord placed the Mark on his arm.

There was an echo of a thought in his head at that. An echo of regret. But really, two years had passed and nothing had changed. Draco hadn’t seen Hogwarts since he was still fifteen, and now he had “celebrated” his eighteenth birthday by making a Muggleborn writhe under the Cruciatus.

After all this time, some things became deadly boring. If only through familiarity. Even having to watch his words around loyalists like Bellatrix had become—

Routine. Dull. Grey.

Draco sighed as he went up the stairs, past corners decorated with splashes of blood and framed scrolls of the Dark Lord’s plans for the wizarding world, to his bedroom. The combination of constant alertness and constant boredom wore on him fierce sometimes.

He reached his bedroom and slipped inside, looking around at the blank walls. The Dark Lord had grown more and more paranoid as time passed. Let a Death Eater show attention to something other than him, even to polishing their wand too much, and he would start suspecting their loyalty. Death Eaters weren’t supposed to have a center of their lives or anything they cared about other than him.

So Draco had no paintings or tapestries or curtains now. Just a huge blank glass window, and a bed decorated in green sheets, which was approved. Since the Dark Lord didn’t seem to relish sleep himself, he hadn’t yet started suspecting attachments to pillows and sheets.

Draco lay down slowly and stared at the ceiling of his four-poster. Once, it had carried paintings done by his father and grandfather in childhood, with dragons blazing at fierce Malfoy wizards and golden chimeras gamboling with their heads turned back over their shoulders. But he had scraped it clean when the Dark Lord first started ranting about images.

_I wish I’d never made the choice to become a Death Eater._

Such a thought was safe only here, out of range of the Dark Lord’s powerful Legilimency. And Draco knew Nagini was probably beneath his bed, or one of the Dark Lord’s other spy snakes, sliding in and out, compelled by his power to report to him. That meant he could never speak it aloud.

Draco sighed and shut his eyes. He had come to the room and lain down in bed, which meant he had to sleep if a snake was here. He couldn’t cast the spells to be sure one was. Why would you need to look for a spy when you were absolutely loyal to the Dark Lord? Obviously, if you were loyal you had nothing to hide.

Luckily, snakes couldn’t seem to detect the difference between lying there with your eyes closed and actually sleeping. And even more luckily, when Draco’s mind had dashed in several different directions and found nothing to occupy itself, it did let him go to sleep, most of the time. Draco had never been afflicted with insomnia.

He drifted, and didn’t remember the moment when he did slumber. Honestly, he sleepwalked through most of his days.

*

Draco opened his eyes to the most unusual of things: a sound that shouldn’t have been there.

He lay absolutely flat and still, and even continued the cadence of his breathing. But his hand cramped under his pillow. His wand was there, and if someone had come into his bedroom to kill him—probably Bellatrix—then he was going to go down cursing. He would have nothing to lose, at that point.

But the movement came again, and Draco put aside the thought that it was his aunt. She wouldn’t have stumbled like that, even if she had wanted to terrify someone before she killed him. She was all about glides and lunges.

Then the person, whoever it was, tripped over the trunk where Draco kept his clothes and began cursing in a loud tone. Draco surged to his feet at once, casting a _Lumos_ Charm that made the room blaze and the shadows flee. 

He had to stare. Because the person on the floor _was_ Bellatrix, her hair sprawled around her and her dark eyes blazing with anger as she tried to untangle her foot from the mess of robes it was caught in. Draco shook his head, wondering if one of the other Death Eaters who enjoyed jockeying for position had finally managed to Confound her or feed her a potion that took away her faculties.

Then her eyes rose to him, and she flushed. “Oops?” she muttered, in what was undoubtedly her own voice but still different. Draco had never heard Bellatrix say that except when she made a victim’s heart stop beating too soon.

Draco felt his hand shake as he aimed his wand. The rush of hope after so long was painful, like waking up a limb that had gone numb with sitting on it.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “Tell me and I _might_ not simply hand you over to the Dark Lord.” He was evaluating her in the meantime with intense attention, trying to learn what he could on his own. She couldn’t be Polyjuiced. The Dark Lord had placed enchantments all over the Manor that would make someone who had recently consumed the potion’s ingredients start vomiting. But there were likewise enchantments, placed by Draco’s own family, that should have destroyed simple appearance-enhancing glamours. Draco didn’t know anything that could give someone another person’s appearance more cunningly than—

Wait. No. He did know one thing. Draco moved a little to one side and tried to make himself seem both alert and less threatening.

“Nymphadora Tonks?” She was a Metamorphmagus, a fact Draco knew although he wasn’t sure most of the Death Eaters did. None of them were Blacks, a family once well-known for having the gift, and most of them only seemed to think that Tonks could disguise herself so effortlessly because she’d been trained as an Auror.

The witch froze. Then she said, “Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks!”

Draco took that as confirmation. He moved a little more, back towards the bed instead of the door, and saw Tonks’s mouth firm. She seemed to understand what he was doing, although really, Draco could have called a house-elf from anywhere and directed them to deliver his bumbling cousin to the Dark Lord. But symbolic gestures were important.

“What mission did you come on?” Draco asked. He wasn’t an important enough Death Eater for them to send someone to assassinate him, and neither did his room contain any objects crucial to the war effort.

His room probably _did_ have a spy-snake under the bed, and that would have to be dealt with depending on the outcome of this conversation. But Draco was willing to wait and see if it would have to come to that.

Tonks stared at him. It was more than disconcerting to see that guilty expression in his aunt’s eyes. She never looked guilty for anything.

“I don’t have to tell you,” she said.

Draco sighed a little. “This is the kind of thing you want to give your life up for?” he asked, and shook his head. “I never did understand the Order of the Phoenix. Proud at all the wrong times.”

Those words were partially for the spy-snake and partially for Tonks. She gave him an earnest look, like a dog trying hard to understand, and then her eyes widened. “Y-you think you can th-threaten me?” Draco was almost sure it was excitement and not fear making her voice shake like that.

“I think I can,” said Draco, and leveled his wand at her, although he pointed it at her feet rather than her head. That was the kind of distinction a human would understand and a spy-snake wouldn’t. Or at least, Draco hoped they wouldn’t.

“All right, all right!” Tonks folded her arms over her head and cringed for effect. Draco grimaced. She was an awful actor. It was just as well there _were_ no other humans in here to overhear her. “Listen. I came here to give you a letter. There are people in the Order who think you can be used.”

_I will have to kill the snake,_ Draco thought calmly. _No matter what the outcome._

“I am one of the Dark Lord’s loyal servants.”

Tonks looked at him, and her face changed a little, although it was only making her eyes blue instead of black. “The person who wrote this letter seemed certain you weren’t.”

Draco just looked back at her, and wondered if he should tell her about the curses he’d cast. Yes, most of them had been at the Dark Lord’s direction, and on captured Muggles instead of wizards—even Mudbloods. But he had still cast them. Draco couldn’t imagine the person she was talking about. It would have been different if any of the professors except Snape had had a close relationship with Draco, or if any of his family had escaped, but neither of those was true. And Snape was an utter traitor.

_I can’t imagine Father and Mother going to the Order even if they did escape._

“I am,” said Draco, and then he cast a carefully-calculated curse. Tonks squeaked as it went past her head. It leaped off the enchanted mirror that Draco had left up on the wall—he suspected the Dark Lord used them as spies, too—and then aimed straight for the most dangerous non-human thing. It made the carpet beneath his bed smolder, and the curtains writhe, but when Draco peered under the bed, it had done its work. An adder that Draco had often seen speeding along the Dark Lord’s business lay there, severed in two halves.

“What are you—”

They had perhaps five minutes of freedom before the Dark Lord noticed. It was always quick. Draco turned around and said, “I need oral information, not written. Now. Then leave.”

Tonks stared at him, but just when Draco thought he might need to curse her to convince her he was serious, she nodded and began to whisper quickly. “We need to win the war. We’re losing the longer it drags on. _He_ can kill us too easily. The one person who most wants to end the war wrote you that letter.”

“His name. Or hers. Now,” Draco added, when Tonks hesitated. He suspected it was Dumbledore, but he was curious what Dumbledore thought he could offer Draco.

 _Not even Hogwarts._ The school had been shuttered for two years, since the Dark Lord had attacked successfully on a Hogsmeade weekend and killed a number of students. Draco had wondered if there was anyone he knew, but he had turned his eyes away from the published list of casualties.

“Harry.”

Draco’s mind ground to a stop, and now he was the one gaping at his cousin like a gormless fool. “Why does _Potter_ care what becomes of me?”

Tonks gripped her robes, the copy of Bellatrix’s robes, and shivered a little. “I don’t know. He said something once about knowing that you would—that you don’t like torturing people, and that you would like to stop being a Death Eater. And that you would enjoy taking a personal price from him. I didn’t understand that bit.”

Draco was silent for long moments. No, he didn’t like torturing people, which was one reason the Dark Lord constantly forced him to do it. How Potter had realized that was a different question.

But then Draco’s minds turned towards the last words Tonks had pronounced, and he found himself smiling without really knowing why, at least until Tonks shivered. He glanced at her, and she shook her head, eyes disturbed and now nothing like Bellatrix’s.

“You’re scary when you smile like that,” she whispered.

“I had a rivalry with Potter,” Draco said. “Yes, I can think of things that I would enjoy taking from him.”

“I—you have to leave him alone, then!” Tonks stood up, and she looked noble and pathetic and enough unlike his aunt to make Draco want to laugh. But that would waste the little time they had. “If he’s wrong, and you’re not a noble person at all, then you have to leave him alone! If you want us to win, then you have to leave him alone so he can succeed!”

“Ah,” Draco said. In truth, he was unsurprised that Potter was important to the Order’s victory and not just an obsession for the Dark Lord, but he could taunt Tonks as though the knowledge was new to him. “So he’s _important_ , is he? I suppose we’ll find out just how important.”

Tonks’s face was pale now, and her hair was changing to a flat brown. “You _can’t_ ,” she whispered.

“I can.” Draco thought their five minutes were almost up. “You tell Potter to write a Blood Letter and send it to me.”

“Dark Arts—Blood Arts—”

“You needn’t say it in that shocked voice.” Draco abruptly leveled his wand at her and shouted, “Help, I don’t understand—my _Lord_?”

Tonks understood, so she wasn’t stupid. She closed her eyes and shifted into the Dark Lord’s form just as a snake slithered under the door.

The snake paused, and Draco bowed to the floor and stammered, “My L-Lord, I never knew that you—I didn’t know you would set me a test—” 

“Perhaps you passed, and perhaps you did not,” said Tonks in the Dark Lord’s high, cold voice, which gave Draco a shudder even though he _knew_ it was an imitation. “I will have to inform you at a…later date.” She gave Draco a savage smile and then strode out of the room, her black cloak floating behind her. Luckily, the Dark Lord didn’t usually wear robes that differed much from the robes of an ordinary Death Eater, so Bellatrix’s clothes didn’t look out of place on “him.”

Draco collapsed back on his bed and sighed, dragging his hand over his face. He might still be in danger. He could say that the “Dark Lord” had ordered him to kill the dead snake as a test, and it would probably be believed—since the snakes had to report to the Dark Lord in Parseltongue, not from a distance—but he could be punished for letting an intruder walk out of the room. Then again, it would all depend on what the newly-arriving snake told the Dark Lord.

Draco closed his eyes. Maybe he would be tortured to death in a few hours.

Maybe Tonks wouldn’t report his words to Potter, or Potter would decide the Dark magic required of a Blood Letter was too extreme to use.

But there was the faint hope that he would manage to start reporting to the Order of the Phoenix, and resist the Dark Lord somehow. Maybe even bring him down.

It was a lot more “maybes,” and “hopes,” than Draco had had an hour ago.

*

“Stand.”

Draco did, at once, even with his muscles still shaking from the aftereffects of the Cruciatus. You did what the Dark Lord commanded when you had his Mark on your arm, and he could send pain through that even worse than the Cruciatus Curse, because it was partially mental.

The Dark Lord leaned forwards again. “You say that you think this was your cousin Nymphadora Tonks, Draco,” he said, and Draco nodded without regret. Tonks wasn’t stupid enough to try sneaking into the Manor again in someone else’s form—at least, she had better not be. And if Potter sent the Blood Letter, Draco would have a more secure way to communicate than through his cousin. “Why did you never mention that she was a Metamorphmagus before?”

Draco looked at the Dark Lord in curiosity, although he dropped his eyes before the red ones that stared back into his. “Because I thought you knew, my Lord,” he said honestly. “I thought Aunt Bellatrix would have told you. She’s as closely related to Tonks as I am.”

The Dark Lord stirred in front of him, but not one of the bad stirrings, like the beckoning gesture that would bring Nagini sliding forwards to claim a meal. “Perhaps she told me,” he whispered, and then fell brooding.

Draco waited. If he could cast some doubts on Bellatrix’s loyalty, he would laugh, although he didn’t seriously think that would happen. Bellatrix always proved herself again with some new willingness to torture.

“Go,” said the Dark Lord abruptly. 

Draco bowed in the deepest obeisance he could manage when still standing, and then backed out of the room, his eyes on the floor. The Dark Lord didn’t notice him. He had turned and was shouting for Bellatrix.

Draco stood slowly, shaking his hands a little, when he got out the door. The Dark Lord didn’t believe him completely, he thought. He had bought Tonks shifting into him—she had already done that by the time the replacement snake had arrived—but he had also seemed dubious that Draco had killed the spy-snake on her orders and done whatever else she asked, because he was so afraid of failing the test that “the Dark Lord” had set him.

He wasn’t sure enough of Draco’s disobedience yet to kill him.

_And as long as I live, there’s the hope,_ Draco thought.

And when he woke the next morning to find the letter from Potter lying at the bottom of his bed in a pool of blood, he knew there was more than hope.

*

The letter from Potter was wrought with blood, as it had to be to pass through the protections the Dark Lord had placed around the Manor. It would also have some of Tonks’s blood. She was the closest relation they had to Draco, and this sort of magical letter combined the blood of the sender with the blood of the recipient. 

The ink was red and shining as if just poured, the parchment itself woven close and thick with swirls of red and silver in it. Draco stroked it for a second, marveling—Potter had undertaken Dark Arts, and for _him_ —before he moved his gaze to the words.

_Malfoy_ ,

_Okay._

_I knew you weren’t going to help us just because you’re a good person. Tonks telling me about the Blood Letter cured that hope if I ever felt it._

_But if you’re going to demand my death or my slavery, that won’t work, either. The Order of the Phoenix needs me to win the war. I don’t think, if you’re willing to help us this much, that you want me to die, either._

_So meet me in the glade in the Forbidden Forest where we saw the thing that frightened you so much in first year, and we’ll see what I can give you._

_H. P._

Draco closed his eyes and lay slowly back. That thing had been the Dark Lord, he knew now, feeding on unicorn blood. The Dark Lord had bragged of the extreme measures he had taken to keep himself alive—and he had also excoriated his followers with them, charging them with negligence for not searching for him more stringently.

Draco wanted to smile when he touched the little vial of blood that dangled on the edge of the parchment. Potter had sent some of his blood so Draco could write back the same way. And he had obviously left the time, if not the place, of the meeting up to Draco.

Two nights hence, there would be a raid on the Ministry, an attempt to break the Aurors’ determined defenses. Draco would pretend to Apparate along and then slip away. In the confusion of masked Death Eaters dodging in and out between their enemies, it was often hard to keep track of who was on a raid anyway.

And that would give him the time to meet with Potter and decide—

Draco ran a finger along the parchment and watched a little drop of the blood he would send back well.

What he _wanted_.

*

By the time he Apparated out of a chaos of Death Eaters and into the glade that he remembered as being full of darkness and fear, Draco knew.

Potter was sitting on a log. He didn’t bother standing. Draco knew a wand would be aimed at him along Potter’s leg, and didn’t bother feeling offended. He sauntered a few steps nearer and then stopped, with a small nod. 

“Did you decide, Malfoy?” 

Draco started. He knew what Potter was like, of course, and as well as he could make out in the low light from his own wand, Potter looked the same as ever: messy hair, a jaw always squared up and tense, bitten fingernails. But his voice struck Draco like a jolt despite those other familiarities.

It had deepened in the more than two years since Draco had last seen him. And when Potter stood up and moved towards him in the moonlight and the _Lumos,_ Draco could see how deep his eyes had become. For a moment, he almost faltered. He wasn’t sure he could make his request of someone who looked like this, instead of his memory-Potter.

But he caught himself back. He’d taken a risk by coming here, by having Potter send the Blood Letter, by sparing Tonks in the first place. A few unusual expressions or looks in Potter’s eye wouldn’t spare Potter from this.

“I want to fuck you,” he said.

Potter nodded, once. Draco, who had expected him to sway, opened his mouth. But Potter was already speaking. “Then these are the terms that this will work on. You’ll pass information on to me either by the Blood Letter or by meeting me here or in some other place you decide on.”

“Any meeting place will become dangerous if we use it too much,” Draco told him starkly. “I’m a good Occlumens, but I can still only lie to _him_ by omission.”

Potter didn’t say the Dark Lord’s name, the first bit of wisdom—respecting the Taboo—Draco had ever seen from him. He said, “Then you’ll tell me which places would work for you to keep safe from His Noselessness.” Draco choked, but Potter was going on, staring over Draco’s shoulder into the forest, as if he found the pattern of the tree branches more interesting than the negotiations for his virtue. “And we’ll meet there, and you’ll trade me the information, and you’ll fuck me.”

At least he flinched when he said the words. Draco moved a step nearer, feeling as heady as though he had sneaked a drink of the elf-mead that was now stored deep in the Manor’s cellars for the Dark Lord’s pleasure only.

“How do I know that I can trust you to let me have you instead of just Apparating away?” he teased, and reached out to put his hand on Potter’s cheek.

Potter flinched again before he let Draco touch. This time, it was as delicious as fresh cherries. But Potter kept his eyes on Draco’s face, and didn’t back away. His cheek was rough with the stubble that of course he didn’t know the right Shaving Charms for, Draco thought condescendingly.

“Because I’m going to give you a taste tonight, and then you can consider the next time you pass on information as a payment for this. And each time you have me after that, it’s an advance on the next time you keep your side of the bargain.”

Potter grimaced horribly as he said the words, but he said them, standing there sturdy and stubborn under the half-moon’s light. Draco leaned towards him and whispered, “Why did you agree? You couldn’t have known what I wanted before you came here.”

“There were a limited amount of things it could be.” Potter said those words in such a resigned tone, shifting back and forth to balance himself, while Draco’s hands found the vulnerable points in his muscles and coaxed yet more shivers and shifts out of him. “I thought it would probably be this.”

“Why did you agree?” Draco repeated. “That was an answer to one of my questions, and not another.”

He slid his finger along the corner of Potter’s jaw. For a second, Potter’s eyes shut. He didn’t sag, though. He just stood up even straighter, as if he thought he could defeat Draco’s touches with sheer hardness.

_I’ll be even harder than that._ It was already true.

“Because this is for the war,” Potter said. “For all the people who would be killed otherwise. For all the people who’ve already died.” He met Draco’s gaze head-on. “Why would _you_ choose this, anyway? I thought you would choose something more—physical.”

_Damn._ Draco hadn’t anticipated what it would do to him, to have Potter think these acts weren’t going to be physical. It was a good job he didn’t have any further to walk this evening. “What do you think this _is,_ Potter?”

“I thought you would want to torture me.”

“Some of it will probably be like torture, from the way you’re flinching,” Draco observed, and traced a hand from Potter’s neck down his breastbone. He sucked in his breath and didn’t move. Draco chuckled. “Are you going to hold your breath all the way through what we do tonight? I assure you, you’ll have to breathe for at least _part_ of it. You’ll be gasping soon.”

Potter’s eyes flared, and some of the depth Draco had seen there fell away, revealing the familiar look he’d worn when they were challenging each other over the Snitch. “Right, Malfoy. With disgust.”

“No,” Draco said. He returned his hand to Potter’s throat, delicately letting his fingers encircle it. Potter was still mostly twigs and light flesh. Whatever the Order of the Phoenix fed its members clearly wasn’t all treacle tart and shepherd’s pie. “But I can’t do anything to help my parents. I’ve spent the past two years thinking they’re going to die. It might be any moment. It might be because someone convinces the Dark Lord they’re traitors, or just because he’s bored. There’s no way to plan for something like that.

“This, though?” Draco was breathing faster, and he was enormously pleased to see Potter’s chest heave in response. “This will have regular dates and times. I’ll get to help defeat the Dark Lord if it works. And you’re going to _entertain_ me.”

He bent his head and kissed Potter.

Potter stood there, accepting it. He was _so_ restrained and held back that Draco wanted to shout for joy. And when was the last time he’d felt _that_ impulse?

Draco also wanted to break Potter’s restraint, but that was a lot easier than keeping hope alive, or winning his parents free from the Dark Lord, or even passing information to the Order. He pushed Potter to the grass. Potter went with his arms flying, trying to get his hands beneath him and roll him away.

“No,” Draco whispered, kneeling beside him. “Because this is the price, Potter. And you said yourself that this is an advance payment.”

Potter jerked once, then closed his eyes and lay there. A muscle in his jaw kept jumping, and so did his pulse, but he seemed to accept it.

On the other hand, how fun was someone who lay there and pretended that you were the darkness behind his eyelids? Draco shook his head and clucked his tongue, and slid his hand down Potter’s groin. Potter gasped, his eyes flying open.

“Look at me,” Draco commanded. He waited until Potter did, his eyes glinting and wild in the darkness, before he lay down on top of him.

It was delicious, even with how tight Potter’s muscles were, which made for a not-very-soft bed. Draco let his hand wander in patterns down Potter’s chest; he found the lines of his legs and traced them. Then he returned to his breastbone, and opened his shirt there—Muggle clothes were so ridiculous—and licked one of Potter’s nipples.

He jumped and tried to push Draco off him. It was _hysterical_.

But Draco was still hard, and toying with Potter wasn’t as much fun as having Potter jerk him off. He reached down and thrust his cock into Potter’s hand, which was down by his side, as if he thought he could make Draco’s interest wane by keeping as far away from him as possible. Potter promptly jumped and glared again, but his eyes slid away from Draco’s after a second.

“Pull me off,” Draco ordered, bending down so his mouth was right beside Potter’s ear.

Potter did, his eyes half-open and staring past Draco’s neck. That was all right, for this evening, Draco thought, as he panted and his body surged. It had been so long since someone touched him—a quick fumble with Pansy in a corner of the Manor when her parents had visited to pay obeisance—that he hadn’t known if this would work.

But it _did_ , and he emptied himself so quickly his head spun. Potter made a disgusted sound and wiped his hand off on the ground even though he’d only been touching Draco through layers of cloth. Draco chuckled and let his head fall for a moment, to rest on Potter’s cheek.

Part of the quickness undoubtedly was because of the length of time he’d been celibate. But he thought the other part was Potter.

When he felt good and ready—and judged the raid wouldn’t be over yet—Draco leaned down and kissed Potter’s cheek, then his lips, then his nose. That last was purely so Potter wouldn’t be able to glare past him. Then Draco sat up and stretched his arms and said, “Don’t worry, Potter, I’ll let you have a chance to play the good little martyr soon.”

Potter stood up without a word and wiped his hand off once more against his trousers. Then he Apparated.

Draco closed his eyes and let his body hum for one moment more. Then he gathered up the discarded Death Eater masks, both the white one he’d tossed aside when he came into the clearing and the expression of indifference that was the only safe one to wear most of the time in the Manor.

Potter had brought back more than hope into Draco’s life. He’d brought fun.

Draco would have to remember to thank him appropriately, the next time he saw him.

*

“I know you weren’t on the raid, Draco.”

Draco paused, on the verge of leaving the dining room after another tedious meeting, and turned to his mother. It was the first time she had said something like that since the beginning of their siege in the Manor. Two years ago, now. More. Draco could feel the sweat burst out on his skin and the heartbeat like needles set to puncture his eardrums.

His first thought was that this was Bellatrix with special permission to be under Polyjuice, or that the Dark Lord had found his own Metamorphmagus. Because his mother wouldn’t risk saying such a thing in the presence of the snakes certainly watching them.

But Mother looked straight at him, and her pale eyes were huge and wary but real. She said, “Your father’s finally got back enough control of the protections on the Manor to defend us so we can speak.”

Draco swallowed, overcome. At one time, Malfoys could have said anything they wanted to anywhere in the Manor and no one else could have overheard them, even given eavesdropping spells or spying house-elves. The Dark Lord had taken control of that magic from Father when he came here, thanks to his link to Father’s Dark Mark. Draco had assumed the control had only strengthened when he himself was branded.

But if Father had taken them back…

“He can only hold them for a few minutes at a time,” Mother went on, her hands clenching in her robes. She held Draco’s eyes and said, “Whatever you are doing, I want you to keep yourself safe first. Not us.”

“I have to keep you safe.” Draco said it helplessly. He knew Mother wished he had gone back to Hogwarts during what would have been his sixth year, and the Dark Lord had even thought of it, of some kind of “special mission” that in the end never came to fruition. But even on that mission, Draco would have done anything and everything for Mother and Father. They were his _world._

“Not at the expense of your own life. If you have an escape, we wish you to take it.”

Draco gnawed his lips. Too dangerous to say much. Even as he hesitated, he saw Mother’s eyes move to the corners, which probably indicated that the magic was reverting to the Dark Lord’s control. But he said, “It’s for the ultimate escape.” Not personal, he hoped she understood from that. Not something that would help him to flee, but something that would free them all.

Mother’s eyes widened. And then she lowered her eyes and whispered, “I hope you know what you’re doing, Draco.”

The room became a little heavier in the corners, and Draco felt as though someone was sliding a slimy finger down his soul. He forced some semblance of a smile onto his face and reached out to pat Mother’s shoulder. “It will work out the way I want.”

Mother bowed her head. Draco strutted out of the room as though he was thinking of some plan that would set him higher in the Death Eaters, something she had tried to talk him out of.

In his heart, he reeled. Because he had known that his parents feared the Dark Lord and would bow only because of that fear, but…

For Father to have taken back the magics of Malfoy Manor meant he had turned against _him_ completely. He had forsaken the loyalty implied by the Dark Mark and stood outside it. The Mark could still hurt him, still had some sort of claim on his body, but the claim on his magic was lessening.

Draco had never thought that would happen.


	2. By Just Exchange

“Are you sure you want to do this, Harry?”

Harry closed his eyes and waited through one deep breath and then another. Hermione waited with him. She wouldn’t ask a question like that and expect him to have an instant answer, Harry thought. It was one of the best things about her.

But one of the _worst_ things was that she would go around asking questions like that and expecting him to answer them at all, when he had just barely come to some peace.

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry said finally, opening his eyes and looking around the dingy little kitchen at Grimmauld Place rather than directly at her. “I gave my word.”

Hermione’s eyes were wide when he looked back at her, but she looked too run-down, after almost two years of open war, for tears. She nodded and scrubbed at her face. “It’s just…horrible,” she whispered.

Harry laughed a little. “When has Malfoy ever not been horrible?” In agreeing to spy for them in the first place, he supposed. Tonks had talked over and over again about how terrible he had looked when she saw him in Malfoy Manor, and how dangerous it seemed there.

But Harry and the Order of the Phoenix knew all about danger. Number Twelve Grimmauld Place was the only safe place they had left, and it grew more crowded every day as rescued Muggleborns, wounded Aurors, and desperate refugees came in. They got what people of those they could out of reach, to France or the remote parts of Ireland, but unless they won the war, that wouldn’t be enough, soon.

At least they had the Fidelius, anchored in Dumbledore, or someone among the many, many people tired of the war probably would have betrayed them long ago.

There was a sharp spark near his head, and Harry leaped and turned around. He still wasn’t used to that. Of course, this was only the second Blood Letter he’d received from Malfoy.

The parchment that formed was almost golden-red, the way it had been last time, and the ink gleamed like shining blood. Harry grimaced. He knew how Blood Letters worked, or he had once Tonks had told him that was what Malfoy wanted to use to communicate and he and Hermione had done some research. The shared blood of the ink formed a bond between the sender and receiver, and Blood Letters could get through any boundaries and would normally only appear when the recipient was alone.

Which…

Oh, he was. Hermione was standing in the corridor outside the kitchen, ignoring Mrs. Black’s shrieks as she talked to Kingsley. It said something about how terrible the war had got, Harry thought as he slipped the letter into his pocket, that Mrs. Black’s screams were a lesser evil.

He would have to read it later. Hermione and Kingsley were coming into the kitchen, and the way they looked was enough to tell him they had more bad news.

_At least,_ Harry thought unexpectedly, _when I’m with Malfoy, I can show my honest emotions. He’s_ happy _that this disgusts me._

In front of Order members, he had to act the all-knowing general, or it was all for naught. They couldn’t fight on without someone to look to, and Dumbledore was gone more than half the time these days, still looking for Horcruxes.

Harry sat up and forced a confident gleam into his eyes. “What is it, Auror Shacklebolt?”

*

_Potter,_

_I thought you might like to know that the Dark Lord is planning a raid on the Ministry tomorrow. It’ll start like the others, with Death Eaters only casting spells at the Aurors first, but then they plan to have the Dark Lord himself participate. They’ll try to break the defenses with his magic and let him get inside the Ministry at last. There will be flank troops waiting to come through the Floo. I reckon they’ve got hold of some Ministry workers who Floo in every morning and now have had their houses taken over._

_This raid is supposed to happen at seven minutes after nine. The Dark Lord likes the number seven, for some reason._

_I think I deserve, at the very least, your bare skin tomorrow. Shall we say in the place where you once threw mud at me, at ten at night? By then, you should know whether my information was enough to save the battle or not._

_Draco._

Harry closed his eyes and lay there, chest heaving. He had been disgusted enough when he’d only had to touch Malfoy through cloth. He’d washed his hand three times when he returned to Grimmauld Place, and then cast _Scourgify_ Charms until Ron made him stop. He wasn’t sure that he could bear the touch of revealed skin.

But he reckoned this was something he would have to get used to. And as Snape was prone to remind him, now dozens of people had died to protect him, and Harry hadn’t done anything, really, since the end of fifth year. Sixth year had been tense, with the war drawing near Hogwarts and Dumbledore teaching him about Horcruxes, but the only one they’d destroyed since then was the locket. Dumbledore was still trying to figure out how to get past the trap spells on the ring without hurting himself, and they hadn’t found any others.

And Harry had hidden in the house and only occasionally gone on raids since last summer, between his sixth year and what _should_ have been his seventh.

When Harry had decided, from the visions he still got, that Malfoy was the most reluctant torturer among the Death Eaters and perhaps they could do something with him, Tonks had volunteered to carry the message. Everyone thought of Harry as their general and inspiration, but this was the first thing he had really _done_ , the first plan he had really come up with.

He would do something with it now. He wouldn’t back out.

He reached for the vial of Malfoy’s blood that had arrived with the letter and his own wand, and started to write back.

*

“I wasn’t sure if you would remember when I wrote those words.”

Harry stood with his back turned to Malfoy and admired the tumbledown nature of the Shrieking Shack instead. No one came here now; Hogsmeade was occupied, and the students at Hogwarts, when it still had students, had avoided it. Harry wondered what they had thought could happen there that was worse than what happened in the war.

“ _Potter_.”

And now Malfoy’s hand was on his shoulder, and Malfoy’s breath was in his ear. Harry turned around and met the git’s eyes as fearlessly and calmly as he could. He would do what had to be done, and get it over with.

“Come,” Malfoy said, gone breathless for some reason. _Maybe my disgust arouses him,_ Harry thought with a roll of his eyes as he trailed Malfoy around behind the Shrieking Shack. There was a small area there that Malfoy shielded with Smoky Wall Charms, the equivalent of a Disillusionment Charm cast on the air instead of a person. And then he faced Harry and stared at him.

“Strip.”

“Yeah, because you told me to.”

Malfoy smirked. His eyes were still wide and gleaming with excitement. Maybe it made a change from the crunching, boring grind of life as a Death Eater, Harry thought. _I wouldn’t know._ “I told you other things that seem to have prevented a raid. The Dark Lord was extraordinarily angry. I’m supposed to be on a scouting mission now to try and capture members of the Order and figure out how they did it.” He paused. “I think that’s enough to merit a kiss, isn’t it?”

“A kiss or stripping?” Harry snapped. “Because I can’t do both at once.”

“You could if you would only wear robes instead of those ridiculous Muggle clothes,” Malfoy muttered, but he was on the verge of laughter still. “A kiss first.”

Harry stepped forwards. All the thoughts clanging through his head revolved around two things: the kisses he had shared with Cho and Ginny, and how awful this was going to be in comparison.

And yet, somehow, it wasn’t. 

Malfoy reached down and hooked his hand ruthlessly through Harry’s hair, tilting his head back until he exposed Harry’s neck. Harry gritted his teeth at the feel of fingers pressing into his skin and did his best to kiss Malfoy sort of on the lips but mostly on the chin.

It didn’t work. Malfoy’s mouth was in the right place after all, and this time, Harry only felt ordinary skin for a minute before Malfoy’s tongue swept out and tapped hard on his mouth.

_This is for the Order and the raid that we prevented and the lives we saved today,_ Harry reminded himself, and opened his mouth.

He jumped when Malfoy’s tongue touched his. He _hated_ it. Of course he did. He would rather have been in bed or awaiting some news from the Order than here at all. And yet it was _intense_. It was probably just tongues touching, but it felt as though he had grabbed hold of Muggle electricity.

Malfoy urged him backwards, stroking Harry’s forehead and the scar, which surprisingly didn’t hurt at all, even with Voldemort’s anger. On the other hand, Harry knew enough Occlumency by now that their connection was mostly under his control.

Malfoy had conjured some blankets and a sort of mattress or pallet on the ground, too. Harry let Malfoy lay him down, still caught up in the sensation in his mouth. His lips tingled when Malfoy pulled back, and he put up a hand to feel at them before he caught himself and scowled at Malfoy.

The git knelt down beside him, still staring. Harry got restless and squirmed. He’d _never_ liked being stared at, even if it was just one person. Aunt Petunia used to do it all the time when he was a little kid.

_Good. Think about the Dursleys. If anything can make this absolutely without lust on your part…_

“ _Now_ strip,” Malfoy said, and his voice was as soft as the whispers that Ron and Hermione sometimes exchanged.

Harry locked his teeth together, to give himself something to think about so embarrassing thoughts would stop coming to mind, and rolled to get himself out of the trousers. The shirt was easiest. The pants he worked on with shaking hands, until Malfoy reached out and helped him pull them softly, inexorably, down.

“Ah,” Malfoy said, and without even asking permission, he reached out and caught Harry’s cock in his hand.

It happened just when Harry was trying to stare up at tree branches and the darkness and decide this wasn’t occurring at all. He choked, because Malfoy’s hand was _also_ the first one other than his own to touch there, and Harry thrashed and reached down to snatch Malfoy’s wrist. But Malfoy only tugged a little and shook his head.

“No. You ceded the right to complain when you agreed to this,” Malfoy whispered, and bent down yet again to kiss him. 

Harry almost tried to vanish into the kiss this time, because it would distract his attention from the way that Malfoy’s hand eased idly along his cock, now and then pausing to rub the head, now and then acting as if he wanted to know all the veins that ran through Harry’s it. Fleeing was impossible. By the time Malfoy leaned back and began to take off his own clothes, Harry was hard.

He put his arm over his eyes and tried to breathe slowly, evenly. Nothing made sense. Well, all right, it made _sense_ , it was just a response, but why Malfoy would want him aroused didn’t.

So Harry decided to ask.

He dropped his arm and opened his mouth, and then froze again. He had to stop doing that, he thought in distant desperation. 

But Malfoy was _also_ the first person Harry had ever seen undressing to have sex with him, and that changed things.

Malfoy’s face was calm, distant, attentive, his glittering eyes traveling back and forth from Harry’s groin to his lips. He smiled when he saw Harry staring, and arched his neck, turning his head a little so that his hair fell down as he undid the last buttons of the robes and pushed them away.

He wasn’t even wearing _pants_.

Harry looked down before he could stop himself, and choked. Yes, Malfoy was aroused, and he didn’t need any outside help.

Malfoy grabbed his mouth in a kiss before Harry could ask his question. Then he lowered himself with a groan, and suddenly Harry had a warm, bare chest on his, and warm, bare legs locked around his hips, and a warm, bare _cock_ on top of him.

Harry bucked and gurgled something. Malfoy only kissed him back and began to rub so hard that it was damn distracting. Harry pushed at his shoulders, and Malfoy only took one of his hands and pinned Harry’s wrists above his head.

That gesture reminded Harry of what he was here for. He tried to lie still, tried to think about the darkness and the tree branches again. There was someone who had said to lie back and think of England—

But he _couldn’t_. It was a stab like Malfoy was already fucking him when Malfoy smashed their groins together. And then Malfoy dragged his nails down Harry’s chest and it was prickling pain followed by prickling pleasure. And then Malfoy pinched his nipples.

It wasn’t _fair_ , Harry thought as he heard himself moan. He didn’t know all this stuff about himself! He was supposed to be safe, he was supposed to get through the war and marry someone and have tender sex and lots of babies—

Not have the most intense experience of his life half-trying to throw Malfoy off and half-trying to pull him closer. And he lost the intention of getting rid of him when Malfoy ground and shimmied against him, and he felt the head of Malfoy’s cock touch the head of his.

_Feels good!_

Harry grabbed Malfoy’s shoulders and tried to find the exact same angle, the same spot. It was so wonderful, it was so _hot_ , and Malfoy did it again and smeared Harry with the soft liquid leaking from him and Harry was _there_ and he was hard and _wet_ too and this was so good that it almost hurt to think it might be _better_ at some point—

Harry’s orgasm coiled in his belly and snapped straight out of him. He wailed against Malfoy’s lips. Malfoy stiffened in response and came all over Harry, and even the feeling of spunk wasn’t disgusting this time, the way it had been last time. Harry was still soaring. He hadn’t crashed yet.

He closed his eyes and lay there, letting pleasure blank out thought, feeling good for the first time he could remember since the start of the war.

*

Coming back to himself hurt. And not because of the scratches on his chest or the way that his hips felt as if he’d been ridden roughshod over stones.

Because of the lingering echo of pleasure in his brain, and the hungry satisfaction in Malfoy’s eyes as he stared down at Harry, tracing one of the scratches.

“I think that went very well,” Malfoy said. “Next time I’ll ask for more.”

Harry sat up fast enough that he banged his forehead into Malfoy’s arm. Malfoy only laughed and moved out of the way, but slowly enough that Harry thought, in spite of himself, about how loose, languid muscles would move, and the way he sometimes felt when he woke up from a dream of the war being over…

His cheeks hurt with how hot they were. _Maybe I should just accept that as normal for being around Malfoy now,_ Harry thought, and sat up to reach for his clothes.

“You were satisfactory.”

Harry only nodded without looking up. He didn’t know what would happen if he looked up. Probably he would do something stupid like say some of the words brewing in the back of his head. And no one would be wiser or better if he said those words. Nothing would change.

What Harry wanted most at the moment was for something to change.

He was so intent on getting his shirt over his head that he didn’t notice Malfoy reaching out to help him. He jumped when hands settled on his shirt collar and pulled it low over his head, and then Malfoy leaned in for another kiss.

Harry nearly punched him in the cheek. Then he thought again of the needs of the war and the way he had given in before, and suffered Malfoy to do it. He stood up and didn’t wipe his lips, even, which he’d thought was more mature than he was capable of being.

Malfoy only lay back and stared up at him with an odd expression, his hair spread around him on the white blankets that he’d conjured. _White like a wedding dress,_ Harry thought, and wished he hadn’t had that thought, which was the case with most of them in his head for right now.

“Put on some clothes,” Harry snapped, averting his face.

“Until next time, Harry.”

Harry shuddered. Even the way Malfoy spoke his name was like an unwanted, intimate caress. And he could see, before he left to Apparate, Malfoy’s eyes on his groin as if he could see how wet Harry’s cock still felt.

Harry’s one consolation, as he left, was that he hadn’t actually had sex in his clothes, which meant there was no visible wet spot.

*

When Harry let himself into Grimmauld Place, he paused. There were usually half a dozen people in the various drawing rooms downstairs, any time of the day or night—people with wounds having them tended to by Madam Pomfrey and their other Healers, if nothing else. But right now, there was nothing except a soft glow of candlelight from the kitchen.

“Hello?” Harry asked, drawing his wand. His first thought was that Death Eaters must have found their way in somehow, perhaps by killing Dumbledore, and that they were waiting for him.

But a gentle voice was the only one to answer him. “There are rooms upstairs better-suited to the tending of wounds right now, Harry. I asked them to leave so I could have a little private conversation with you. Come into the kitchen, please.”

It was Dumbledore’s voice. Still with that vague, lingering feeling from his schooldays, that nothing too bad could have happened as long as the Headmaster was here, Harry walked into the kitchen.

Dumbledore sat in the chair at the head of the table. And he smiled up at Harry and nodded to two bowls on the table in front of him. Both of them were made of stone and covered with sigils that raised the hair on Harry’s arms. For lack of any classes, Hermione had started to tutor him and Ron in Ancient Runes during the months they were stuck here, and he could sense how powerful some of those shapes were.

In one of the bowls lay a heavy ring, cracked in half. In the other was a small silver circlet that looked like the sort of tiara Harry had seen Muggle girls playing princess wear.

“Sir?” he whispered, sitting down in front of Dumbledore. “You finally found a way to destroy the ring?”

“I did. And now that I know how to use it, I can do the same thing to the others.” Dumbledore nodded to the other bowl. “I finally gathered a memory from Horace that revealed Tom talking about a version of the Room of Requirement he used often. And when I looked there…”

“You found another Horcrux,” Harry whispered, bending over to stare at the silver thing in the bowl. It didn’t seem different from a tiara no matter how much he looked at it, though. “What is it?”

“A diadem that once belonged to Rowena Ravenclaw. Thought missing centuries ago.” Dumbledore gave a distinct sigh of satisfaction. “I had never even considered that Tom might try to acquire this item. Unlike his snake, it is not an obvious choice, and the legends of it were so old that I thought he would try for an item with a more recent association with Ravenclaw.”

Harry nodded. They all thought Nagini was a Horcrux, but getting close to her had proven impossible so far. “That’s great news, sir. Can I be there when you destroy the diadem?”

“Yes, I think that would be a good idea.” Dumbledore’s eyes could shine like diamonds, sometimes, when he was happy. “Since you will most likely need to know how to do it yourself.”

Harry blinked at him. Dumbledore was staring at him in that way he had when he was trying to make you guess secrets without telling you them.

But Harry was too tired to guess secrets tonight, and as Dumbledore’s eyes sharpened, Harry thought he might know why. He coughed and stood up. The scratches under his shirt were stinging again. “That really is great news,” he repeated. “It makes everything worth it.”

“I hope it brings the end of the war closer,” said Dumbledore promptly, “so that no one else will ever have to make such sacrifices for the greater good again.”

Harry’s cheeks burned, as they really hadn’t stopped doing since he spent time with Malfoy. Of course Dumbledore knew. Tonks would have told him, if no one else had. Harry nodded awkwardly. “I hope so, sir. Good night.”

Upstairs he went, to take a shower, and cast a Healing Charm on the scratches, and then take a bit of the Dreamless Sleep Potion that Snape doled out to them a tiny flask at a time. The dose would be so small that he would still chance some dreams, but they would last a shorter amount of time and be more broken-up and confused. Harry hoped that there was a lesser chance of sex dreams. He wanted to forget all about having sex with Malfoy.

And he did, until the next Blood Letter arrived.


	3. He Cannot Miss

Draco knelt among the other Death Eaters and watched the torture of the spy in silence. Or the supposed spy. It seemed to Draco, more and more often now, that the Dark Lord tortured those who had done nothing wrong except be in a certain place when he looked at them, or not bowed fast enough, or not babbled out enough convincing excuses for why they hadn’t captured Potter or an Order of the Phoenix member.

He buried those thoughts with the ease of long practice, and bowed his head further as the Dark Lord turned towards him. He thought he knew what the request would be, and sure enough, it came.

“Show him what you can do, Malfoy.”

Draco rose to his feet, eyes fixed and vacant. He knew his parents were looking at him as he crossed the circle of bare stone towards the prisoner. He didn’t look back.

But it was different, this time, as he stood in front of the man and looked down. This was someone he hadn’t really known except by reputation, Hercules Nott, a cousin of Theodore’s who had gone to Durmstrang. He had come back and chosen to be a Death Eater even though he wasn’t qualified. He lay on the floor and stared up at Draco with eyes wide with desperation.

Draco stared back, and thought of qualities and Potter and the idea that he might still have something in his soul that made him even less of a Death Eater than Nott. He snorted and raised his wand.

His Cruciatus was sharp and practiced, by now, and gripped and shook Nott like someone shaking out dust from a rag. Draco actually yawned as he watched. It was a little different from last time, he thought. A _little_ different.

He had something now that made life worth living.

“Enough.”

Draco ended the curse at once and bowed in the Dark Lord’s direction. Those crimson eyes were narrowed, watching him speculatively. Draco wasn’t surprised when the Dark Lord told him to remain after the others had gone, Bellatrix hauling Nott off to one of their Healers. Draco reckoned that the Dark Lord had thought Nott could be useful after all, if only as a spy in some of the circles on the Continent that didn’t owe allegiance to him.

“Kneel.”

Draco did it at once, his head bowed until he touched the floor with his brow. The Dark Lord rose and paced in a steady circle around him. Draco knew that tactic. It was supposed to unnerve people until they blurted out the truth.

But Draco was already unnerved and despairing most of the time, and he knew that the Dark Lord might kill him any hour. He knelt there, until the Dark Lord snapped, “Stand.”

Draco did so at once, and met the Dark Lord’s eyes. He could feel the Legilimency pulling at his thoughts, and carefully rearranged his Occlumency shields so that the Dark Lord could see his contempt for Nott. There was a moment when he was held breathless, and then the pale face in front of him relaxed into a sneer.

“There are those who would say that you are hardly qualified yourself to be a Death Eater, Draco,” said the Dark Lord in a voice like waves of poisoned air.

“I know, my Lord,” Draco whispered back.

“You were less focused this time. Or more focused. Not as absent from the torture, yet less affected by it.” Draco could still hear the sibilants in the Dark Lord’s voice when he dragged out words with s’s, but he didn’t seem to do it as often as he once had. “What changed?”

Draco shook his head a little. “My Lord, I’m coming to realize that no matter how much I’m unworthy of it, I have your Mark on my arm. I have to do _something_. I can break down and cower under the burden. Or I can do my best to live up to it. Even though it’s late and something I should have been doing before.”

“That is…unusual among Death Eaters, Draco. The desire to change. One would have thought you would have remained what you were at the beginning. Most do.”

“I know, my Lord,” Draco said, thinking of his aunt’s unvarying madness and the way that most Death Eaters cringed and did nothing else. “But honestly…” He hesitated.

“You should always be _honest_ with me, Draco.”

“I was bored staying the same,” Draco said.

The Dark Lord’s slitted mouth split further open, and he laughed, a soundless breath that still made sharp prickles crawl up Draco’s arms. He inclined his head and murmured, “I can understand that motivation. Boredom has made me do many things, in my time.” His eyes slid up and down Draco’s body with what Draco thought was a new appreciation. He did his best to keep his face quiet and still, not showing what he felt or thought. 

“Only see that you do not grow bored with serving me,” the Dark Lord added, and the smile fell apart again.

“Of course not, my Lord.” Draco bowed to him. 

“Go.”

Draco went back to his bedroom and sat down, staring for a moment at the wall. He hadn’t been as afraid of the Dark Lord as he usually was, he realized slowly, even though he _should_ have been. He had a secret to hide that made it all the more likely he would die in pain.

But he had not been.

It was only right, as soon as the magic would let him—proving he was truly alone—to write a Blood Letter to Potter, asking him along to celebrate his victory.

*

This time, filled with a strange mixture of emotions and lack of time like bubbling champagne, Draco didn’t let Potter voice a complaint about the surroundings, which were the inside of the Shrieking Shack. Or about Draco, or about being summoned in the middle of the night, or anything else. He simply reached out and dragged Potter towards him and kissed him.

Potter stiffened once, then tried to lean back and let Draco “have his way,” as he would probably put it. But Draco followed him up, pushing him back onto the blankets he’d already conjured on the dusty floor, and straddled Potter’s body.

Last time, he’d felt Potter respond almost against his will. Draco was going to have at _least_ the same level of participation now.

He’d passed on details about a raid on a Muggle village and about the Death Eater the Dark Lord had accused of treachery, meaning that the Order could use Nott’s name and description, if they had to, to pretend it was where they’d got Draco’s information. He was patient and clever and holding up under circumstances that would have destroyed a lot of people. Draco thought he deserved a reward.

Potter still tried to stay passive. Draco pulled back and hissed, “You enjoyed it last time, Potter. And I made it clear in my letter exactly what I wanted from you. Now _open your mouth_.”

A breath when Potter glared at Draco with passionate hatred, and then he opened his mouth. Draco dived in, groaning. The taste made him so hard that he gave up on the notion of lying there and making Potter come first, which he’d been half-planning.

“Come on,” he said, and rolled to the side, and spread his legs. His robes were easy enough to take off. He lay back and pushed his hips up. “Come _on_ ,” he added, when Potter hesitated. So his plans were changing. It didn’t matter. He had to know exactly what Draco wanted from the position he’d taken.

And Potter did. And he knelt, grimly, on the floor, ignoring the way Draco nicely conjured a cushion for him a second later. When he opened his mouth, Draco had to close his eyes for a second. He was about to come right there.

There were no words for the way Potter’s mouth sealed around him.

He sucked like he had _experience_. Draco rolled his hips against Potter’s mouth, and his blood boiled for a different reason as he thought of who Potter might have practiced with. Maybe Weasley didn’t want Potter dating his little sister, and he’d offered himself as a substitute. An older Order member? Would Potter’s godfather, when he was still alive—

Jealousy roared like a tiger. Draco pushed forwards and almost choked Potter. That calmed him a little. 

_Not so much experience, then,_ Draco thought, and grabbed the sides of Potter’s cheeks. “ _Suck_ me,” he said.

And Potter did.

It was almost as if he was glad to have something to concentrate on, Draco thought dizzily as he fell into it. Potter’s nails were tight little pinpricks on the sides of his hips, and Draco’s body rose and fell with the waves of sensation that Potter stirred up in his cock. So _warm_ , and the sensations kept shifting, as Potter’s tongue moved back and forth and up and down. Draco shoved himself down, but Potter never choked again.

And he almost always held eye contact with Draco, at least during those moments when Draco could keep his eyes open.

Draco felt himself getting ready to come. He reached out and cradled Potter’s head between his palms. He didn’t know what he would say, but he knew he had to say it. He opened his mouth.

He didn’t get the chance. Potter sucked again. The orgasm left him with a whoosh like being caught in a rushing wind. Draco fell back on the blankets and gasped at the ceiling.

It was the best experience of his life.

After a little while, Draco became aware that Potter wasn’t on the blankets beside him. He turned his head, thinking for a moment that he might have left.

But instead, he saw Potter kneeling there, his eyes squinched shut and his hands clasping his bony knees. Draco stared. He couldn’t imagine what Potter thought he was doing.

Then he saw the erection, and he knew. Potter was willing it to go away.

Viciously glad that Potter had no idea there were spells for that—and it really seemed as if he didn’t have that much experience after all—Draco rolled towards him and grabbed him around the waist. Potter opened his eyes and stared like a startled deer, then thrashed in Draco’s grip.

“I don’t want it!” he said loudly.

Draco laughed. “As if I would suck _you_ , Potter,” he said, and slid his hand down Potter’s arse instead, turning him and holding him. When Potter tried to back up, he just trapped himself against the wall. Draco maneuvered his knee until it was between Potter’s legs, and held him there with his eyes, and added, “Satisfy yourself.”

It seemed like Potter might break free. His face was red with outrage, and his nails cut Draco’s leg the way they had his hips, and his eyes were blazing again. But when he moved, it wasn’t away, or backwards, or sideways.

It was forwards, against Draco.

Draco groaned. He had had no idea how hot it would be, to have Potter getting himself off against Draco’s knee. Once again, he refused to yield eye contact, and Draco’s pulse hammered almost harder than it had during his orgasm.

It was like Potter thought this was defiance, instead of obedience.

His neck jerked suddenly, and he held his head to the side and _hissed_. Draco’s first thought was Parseltongue, snakes, the Dark Lord, and he shivered.

His second thought was triumph as he felt Potter pouring himself out, hot and sticky, against Draco’s knee.

Even better, Potter slumped after that and couldn’t gather the strength to go right away. Draco gathered him close, wildly delighted by the way his shoulders shook and he bared his neck to Draco because he was too worn-out to do anything else.

Potter actually rolled his head to the side and closed his eyes, he was so weary, and _snuggled_ against Draco. Draco kept his chuckle down to a shudder in his chest. He would probably scare Potter away otherwise.

But he must not have kept it quiet enough. Potter’s eyes flew open, and he tensed. Then he tore himself away from Draco with force so great that he probably left some small hairs and flakes of skin behind. He turned around, panting, his eyes wild.

Draco spread his arms. “I’m not holding you here, Potter,” he said. “Not now. I just didn’t think that someone who helped me enjoy myself so much should go away without getting something in return.”

“Go to _hell_ , Malfoy,” Potter panted. “Like you care about anyone but yourself.”

Draco stared straight at him. “When I’m risking my life to trade you information? Think about it, Potter.”

Potter swore at him some more, words that Draco knew more by the shape his lips made than any breath he could put behind them. And then he turned and snatched his wand and rearranged his clothes and vanished.

Draco leaned slowly back on the blankets. He frowned a little. His triumph hadn’t gone missing; his body still buzzed and sang with how good he felt.

But the evening had ended on a bit of a sour note, and he didn’t know why. Potter’s outrage would only have pleased him a week ago.


	4. Never Was

“Now, Harry!”

Harry took a step forwards and stabbed the Sword of Gryffindor down at the diadem.

For an instant, he thought a snake was coiled there, lashing at him, and he almost jumped backwards and tried to lop its head off instead. But he remembered what Dumbledore had told him about the illusions that guarded the ring and the locket, and he stabbed anyway.

The illusion disappeared just as the snake looked as if it was about to coil up the sword. Instead, the blade came down with a heavy _crunch_ right in the middle of the diadem. Harry saw foul smoke around it for a second, and a shape like a reaching hand, and looked into the heart of flames. He threw up a hand, and the sword clattered to the ground of the small sitting room in Grimmauld Place where Dumbledore had chosen to attempt the destruction of the Horcruxes.

But all those things vanished. The diadem lay before him in two pieces, and Harry straightened up, realizing that he felt lighter and freer than before. He’d unknowingly been hunching a little and feeling depressed ever since he entered the sitting room.

He turned towards Dumbledore, standing with his wand drawn next to one of the shrouded chairs. For an instant, their eyes caught, and then Dumbledore collapsed on the chair and fanned himself, coughing, through the huge puff of dust he sent up. He was laughing, shaking his head back and forth.

“Ah, my dear boy, it feels so much better, doesn’t it? And with the destruction of the diadem, we have removed four of Voldemort’s Horcruxes.”

Harry leaned on the wall and smiled tiredly at Dumbledore. “That only leaves Nagini and—Hufflepuff’s Cup, you think?”

Dumbledore lost his smile at once. Harry stood up slowly. “What is it?” Dumbledore had admitted before they went into the room to destroy the diadem that he didn’t know where the Cup was and he hadn’t thought of a way to get Nagini away from Voldemort, but he looked so serious now that Harry thought something else must have happened.

“There is something I have been meaning to tell you,” said Dumbledore. He gave a long and loud sigh, tapping his finger against the side of the chair. It made a clinking sound, and Harry looked at it. He jumped. There was a ring on Dumbledore’s right hand, and his first thought was that it was Slytherin’s ring, which Dumbledore had repaired for some reason.

But, no, he saw a second later. It was broad and silver, though, with a smooth dark stone.

“Something grave,” Dumbledore continued, drawing Harry’s attention away from the ring. He gave another weary smile. “Let us go down to the kitchen, where we can have hot chocolate. I find it helps considerably with difficult revelations.”

Harry trailed after him, concerned but not worried. What could Dumbledore have to tell him that would really change the status quo? They had destroyed four Horcruxes, with only two left to go.

*

_No, three._

Harry leaned on the railing of the stairs going up to the second floor of Grimmauld Place and sat there with his eyes closed. 

Dumbledore had told him about the Horcrux in his scar.

“I’m sorry, Harry, but there’s really no other way I can interpret the evidence.”

Evidence like his dream connections to Voldemort, the way he could see what he was seeing even when Harry was awake sometimes, and the way the scar burned when Voldemort was near.

Harry reached up to touch his scar, and then shuddered and snatched his hand back. He didn’t like the thought of touching the disgusting thing now, and the thought that a horrid piece of Dark magic like the flames and snake he had glimpsed in the diadem was part of _him_ too made him faint and sick.

“I think there is no way we can do this except to have Voldemort use the Killing Curse on you, Harry.”

Harry buried his head between his knees, and shivered.

At least Dumbledore had told him that his dying, even if it was the last thing that he could do for the war, didn’t mean Voldemort would win. No, Dumbledore was master of two of the Deathly Hallows now—the Elder Wand, which he’d apparently won from Grindlewald long ago, and the Resurrection Stone, which had been in Slytherin’s ring—and he thought he could become master of the third.

“If you will write me a will, Harry, leaving me possession of the Potter Invisibility Cloak…”

Yes, Harry could do that. And even if it was temporary—because Dumbledore had promised that he would leave it to Ron and Hermione in _his_ will—it would make Dumbledore the Master of Death and that, combined with Voldemort being mortal once Harry had died and the other Horcruxes were destroyed, ought to let him defeat Voldemort.

_I always thought I might not make it past the final battle,_ Harry thought numbly to himself as he mopped at his hair, his eyes, his face. _I never thought I wouldn’t see it._

Dumbledore had explained and outlined the consequences and the evidence as kindly as he could. And then he had told Harry to take some time for himself, to think and grieve if he needed to. Or wake up Ron and Hermione and tell them, if he needed to.

Harry took a deep breath and closed his eyes. As understandable as it would be, as _inevitable_ as it would be, he couldn’t face their grief right now. He needed some time to himself, yes, and it seemed he would use it sitting on this stair and getting ready to face death.

 _What I really want is something to remind me that I’m alive, jolt me out of feeling this way,_ he thought dully. _I wish I could duel Snape or something—_

Then Harry paused. There _was_ something. It made him feel stupid and vicious and tainted, half the time, but in a far different way than the Horcrux did. And it was the result of a decision he had made on his _own_. Of course he would die for the war, because he had to. But this, he hadn’t had to. It was a desperation tactic that no one but Harry had thought would work.

Now, he would use it for something else.

He stood and went to write a Blood Letter. He hardly dared to hope that Malfoy would be able to slip away right now. It was almost midnight, and Voldemort might make the Death Eaters work harder at night, or at least keep a closer watch over them.

But even if he didn’t respond, at least Harry could Apparate, and to a place that no one else would visit. And he could scream his heart out. And he could pace back and forth, and cast destructive spells if he needed to. 

In fact, even as he sent the letter off, Harry found himself almost hoping that Malfoy wasn’t able to come. Probably it was better to just take his temper out on inanimate objects, not rely on sex that he felt was good against his will.

*

But, of course, Malfoy was there, waiting in the ruined shell of Flitwick’s Charms classroom.

Hogwarts was blackened stone all around them as Harry picked his way towards Malfoy, dodging rubble. The Death Eater attacks had burned the school out after it had been evacuated. At least three professors Harry knew of—Sprout, Sinistra, and Flitwick—had lost their lives defending the students as they either Apparated themselves or got taken away by people who could Apparate. Voldemort had had to take out his frustration on walls and doors and towers instead.

It still hurt, to see the places where people should have walked and laughed and studied and read in the library so empty. Harry had to avoid looking at the huge pile of crisp parchment ashes that marked the library, if only because he could feel the echo of the pain Hermione would experience ringing through his head.

Instead, he focused on Malfoy, who had created a little corner, as usual: blankets on the floor, a Disillusionment Charm around them, a fire burning on air. Harry began taking off his robes the instant he was in the protected area. For once, he’d decided not to wear Muggle clothing.

“Potter?”

Malfoy was climbing to his feet, his lips parted. He’d lost his smug look for the first time Harry could remember since _this_ had started. That suited Harry.

“I want you to fuck me,” Harry said, and shucked the robes off so they could fall on the floor. He could hear Malfoy gasp. He wasn’t wearing pants. “Not so it hurts, but as hard as you can.” He turned and knelt on the floor, facing away. It was as much as he knew about this kind of sex between men.

Malfoy moved towards him, quietly. He knelt down and traced Harry’s shoulder. Harry shivered. _Now_ was the time that Malfoy chose to get so stupidly sentimental, when Harry just wanted all the emotions chased out of his head?

“Malfoy—”

Then the git shuffled around on his knees in front of Harry and kissed him.

Harry dived into the kiss with relief. At least this would be like usual, a tongue driving into his mouth that wiped out all thought—

But it _still wasn’t._ Malfoy kissed him with slow, consuming strength, sure, but not as fast as Harry needed it. And he eased Harry back into the blankets, and spread his legs with a gentle push of his hands, and coated his fingers with a thick, sticky liquid that Harry had never seen before, and slid them inside gently.

“This—isn’t what I asked you for,” Harry panted, even as he tried to get used to the strange feeling of fingers inside him. But it was only strange, not the pounding he needed. “Can’t you—do it— _right_ for once?”

“No,” Malfoy said, and grinned a little. “Because I live to piss you off.”

Before Harry could argue about that, Malfoy kissed him again, and then his fingers spread out inside Harry like his own legs. Harry strangled out a moan. It was still strange, but it was also making other sensations stir that he had no name for.

This was the first time he’d ever been _glad_ to feel himself getting hard for Malfoy.

Malfoy took his time. Of course he did, even when Harry gasped and swore at him. He coated his fingers with more liquid, and at last he had two or three inside Harry—Harry had lost track, between the drug-like kisses and the way Malfoy moved over him, covering Harry, holding him warmer than the fire did. But Harry noticed when Malfoy pulled away and began to undress.

Harry opened his eyes to watch him. Malfoy’s robes had spots of moisture that Harry realized had come from sweat and probably the lube he’d conjured. Harry wanted to roll his eyes. Malfoy could have got naked any time before this and spared himself some Cleaning Charms later.

“Why?” he asked, and gestured with his chin at the robes.

“I didn’t want to,” Malfoy answered, throwing the robes into a corner of the room.

Which was as good an answer as any, Harry thought as Malfoy eased forwards again and got his own cock ready. But why Malfoy wanted to kiss Harry while he was fully-dressed and prepare him like this for so long, even when Harry had kicked him in the back of the knee to get him to move faster, was a mystery.

Malfoy flicked out his fingers one more time and then murmured, “This is still going to feel weird.”

“I don’t _care_.”

“No, I suppose you don’t.”

Malfoy entered him. Harry found himself holding his breath, but it really didn’t hurt. He supposed that would be the point of all the preparation Malfoy had done. And maybe he’d used some spells to make it more comfortable, too.

But at least it had one effect Harry had wanted. The thought of the Horcrux inside Harry had danced like a flicker of a fire at the back of his mind all through this, and he hadn’t let Malfoy kiss his scar when he’d tried. But now—now—

Something _else_ was inside him. And Harry could raise his hips to meet Malfoy’s and squeeze down on him and be reassured that this was only something anyone would do, that lots of people wanted. Nothing to do with Horcruxes and strange and foul desires.

“Fuck me,” Harry whispered, opening his eyes. Malfoy’s face was strange with shadows as he stared down at Harry.

At least the command got him moving. He reached out and held Harry’s hands above his head, the way he liked to do, wrists against the blankets, as he rocked inside him. And Harry was groaning soon enough. It wasn’t fast, but it was _hard_.

Every thrust seemed to drive further into him. Harry thought briefly that was impossible, he was imagining things, but that was still what he felt. And his legs came up and clasped around Malfoy’s waist and dragged him in, and that was good too. So _good_. Harry’s mouth ran with saliva and he turned his head to the side, but found Malfoy waiting to kiss it away.

Thrust, and thrust, and thrust. Harry wriggled closer and discovered something new: he _really liked_ having someone inside him.

The fire dimmed. The blankets grew softer. Malfoy rocked and rocked and rocked, and Harry groaned almost in disappointment when he felt the first climb of his orgasm up the inside of his belly.

Malfoy leaned down and took him prisoner in a breathless kiss, shortening his thrusts and deepening them. Harry could barely move except where Malfoy moved him. Hands held trapped, mouth held quiet, hips jerking in aborted movements under Malfoy’s—

He could barely move to _come_ , it seemed. His cock had no room to twitch, or spill, between his belly and Malfoy’s. He cried out, but Malfoy swallowed the sound and shifted a little and thrust again.

Pleasure tore through Harry once more even as Malfoy came, and he didn’t know whether it was magical or the result of something Malfoy had done. He didn’t care. He shut his eyes and drifted in deep silence. 

Malfoy shakily swore above him.

Harry rested. 

*

“Why did you want to do this now?”

Harry sighed and rolled over. Of _course_ Malfoy would ask that just when he’d been on the verge of getting comfortable. But it was probably time to go back to Grimmauld Place anyway. When he cast a _Tempus_ Charm, he saw that it was.

“Because I got some very bad news,” Harry said, when he saw Malfoy’s hand reaching for his wrist out of the corner of his eye and knew that he wasn’t going to let it go. Malfoy’s hand fell back again, but then he came and stood in front of Harry, frowning. Harry sighed, draped the robes over his shoulders, and met his eyes. “News that means I’m not going to survive this war no matter what happens.”

Malfoy reeled back a little. He stared at Harry with such a _young_ expression that Harry wanted to laugh. Who knew it took some news of his fucktoy’s demise to make Malfoy look like that?

“You—can’t know that. No one can really know what will happen in a battle until they get on the battlefield.”

Harry had the temptation, then, to ask him how many battles with Muggles or Muggleborns he’d participated in. But he refrained. It would be useless and just get them upset. And Harry had got rid of most of the tension in his body. He wasn’t eager to get it back, not this soon.

“Then say that we’ve chosen a tactic that’s definitely going to kill me. But it’ll end the war.”

Malfoy shook his head. “I’d counted on you being alive. The—” His long eyelashes shaded his eyes in a slow blink. “I’d counted on you being alive so you could testify for my parents and me and ensure that we had a place after the war.”

“Dumbledore and Tonks know about the bargain we made,” Harry said. He was still relaxed after all. Malfoy couldn’t change much. He had already done his worst, and Harry had not only survived it but welcomed it. “They’ll testify for you and your parents.”

“What if _they’re_ dead?”

Harry snorted. “They have a better chance of surviving at this point than I do.”

He turned to walk back through the rubble of Hogwarts, and Malfoy’s arms seized him around the waist. Harry stiffened. He didn’t want to fight Malfoy, but he would if the idiot didn’t let him go. He had to get back soon. Hell, for that matter, _Malfoy_ had to get back soon. Voldemort would be a lot more suspicious than Dumbledore.

“I don’t want you to die,” Malfoy whispered into the back of his ear, his breath wet and hot. He kissed Harry there. Harry stood still, caught in surprise. “I don’t—you _can’t_ die like that. You’re the Boy-Who-Lived.”

Harry bit his tongue to avoid saying something about how that was the reason he was going to die. He _couldn’t_ trust Malfoy with any truth about the Horcrux and the real reason his death would ensure Voldemort’s. Look at how stupidly he was already acting with just a part of the truth. It would be a lot worse if Harry revealed more.

“You’re not going to change things like this,” Harry said harshly. Malfoy’s arms dropped away from him, and Harry felt a little sorry. He went on more gently after a minute. “Thanks for changing what you could.”

He stepped through the illusions and away from the fire, and walked through the school to a point he could Apparate. He didn’t look back. He didn’t think it was the last time he would see Malfoy. The git was likely to call him at least once more, in order to gratify his own desires. And this wasn’t a sentimental parting.

It was just a parting. The way it had to be. 


	5. Hath My Heart

It was not going to happen.

_Because I will it not to,_ Draco thought, lying with his arms stiff on either side of his body, staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom, invisible in the darkness. He panted like he’d been running, and he knew it didn’t sound healthy.

It also wasn’t healthy to have sweat standing out on his forehead, and his fingers working frantically in the blankets beside him, and his body feeling as though it would be simpler to stop existing. At least that way, he wouldn’t have to deal with the consequences of what Potter had said.

_They have a battle plan that requires him to die._

If things had been different, the Dark Lord the man Draco’s father had once described, then there would have been no difficulty about what Draco had to do. He would have betrayed Potter’s plans to the Dark Lord in an instant, and asked for Potter’s life as his reward. Then Potter would have been upset with him, but he would have been alive. Which had to come before everything else.

But then Draco wouldn’t have started spying for the Order of the Phoenix anyway, because he would have stayed loyal to the Dark Lord, and there would be no bargain for Potter to fulfill.

Draco shifted around, trying to get more comfortable. There seemed to be a hump of spring under his back, which was silly, when the mattresses his family was afforded were still more comfortable than anything else in the Manor.

Or as if it was a piece of pine needle stuck there.

_Yes. That’s what it’s like. A piece of needle stuck and irritating me, like that one bed I lay with Potter on._

He could taste Potter even when he was alone now, see the way his stubborn expression melted into pleasure, and feel the urgency coursing through him like a drumbeat when Potter’s unexpected Blood Letter had arrived, summoning Draco to—Draco knew it now—give him something he could forget the bad news in.

Well. Potter would learn that he couldn’t just jerk Draco around.

_He’s not the only one who can make plans and do something unexpected. And neither is the Order of the Phoenix._

*

“You seem strangely intent on that potion, young Draco.”

Draco hadn’t started when the Dark Lord spoke, because, as silently as he could move, he still needed to open doors. And Professor Snape, traitor though he was, had taught Draco to hold his own in Potions by maintaining a state of clear, lucid concentration that would let him focus absolutely on the potion while coming to the surface in the case of outside sensations. The noise of the door opening was one of those things he’d trained Draco to respond to. It might mean the difference between success and disaster for a potion.

“I hope that you’ll let me use it in the next raid, my Lord,” Draco responded, kneeling even as he strained some of the yellow, murky mixture the potion had become through a net of silver threads that had been in the Malfoy family for generations. The potion ran gold through them as it dripped back into the cauldron, but left a sharp-edged glop clinging to the net’s threads. Draco laid the net aside on the table. He would need to mix the glop back in later. 

“Or should I say,” he went on, turning around and bowing so that his forehead touched the floor, “the _aftermath_ of the next raid, when we bring some Muggles back here.”

The Dark Lord chuckled and reached down, pressing on the back of Draco’s neck. Draco looked up obediently, and filled his mind with images of potion-making as he felt the usual probe against his shields.

“The Lover’s Haze,” said the Dark Lord. “What _interesting_ ideas you have, Draco. We might let you put on a show before the court. Or we might not,” he added, in that usual way he had of changing the ground beneath his Death Eaters’ feet so nothing would be certain.

Draco had expected it, and let his eyes fall again as he nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

“Continue,” said the Dark Lord, and swept out. Draco got back to his feet and reached for an obsidian knife to chop up some of the sharper edges in the glop.

The Lover’s Haze Potion, when he had it done, would be a potion he could smear on his lips, and transfer with a kiss. It never affected the one who had made it. But it would drug the one he kissed, loosen their tongue and make them confess their innermost thoughts.

Usually, it was used simply in bedroom games, to learn the desires of one’s partner—or the things that would most humiliate them, in the game Draco was letting the Dark Lord think he would play.

But there was another property of the potion that Draco was counting on. The confessions would always be the absolute truth.

*

“I don’t think this is such a huge thing to ask for, given what I’ve done for you in the last little while.”

They were back in the clearing in the Forbidden Forest where they had seen the dying unicorn. Even those memories dimmed before Draco’s irritation as he watched how slowly Potter undressed.

Potter turned towards him, face shadowed. Then he shook his head and said, “Oh. No. It wasn’t begrudging you, Malfoy. Just thinking about something else.” He kicked the Muggle trainers he’d once again worn off and bent down to yank on his trousers.

Draco had the Lover’s Haze potion safe in a vial in his already discarded robes. He had intended to put it on his lips immediately and kiss Potter the instant he arrived, so that there would be no chance Potter could get away without telling Draco what was going on.

But now, it was as if a fire had leaped to life in his chest, and he didn’t want Potter drugged or distracted at all while they were having sex. He seized the bottom of Potter’s rough clothes and dragged them off while he was still struggling with his belt. Potter gasped and fell, up in a second with his wand in hand.

“What are you _playing_ at, Malfoy?” he snarled, aiming the wand straight at Draco. “If you think for a second I’m going—”

Draco grabbed him around the waist and dragged Potter against him, his fingers finding flinching warm skin, warmer from the fire Potter had been standing with his back to. Draco had drugged a guard-snake to come here, and while he was confident in his own Potions skills, he knew he would have to get back soon.

And yet all that went out of his head when he saw Potter so determined to focus on something beyond Draco.

“You think you can _ignore_ me?” Draco hissed, digging his hand into the soft skin over Potter’s ribs, making him wriggle and yelp. “Well, you _can’t_.” And he slammed his mouth into Potter’s, so hard that he knew Potter’s teeth were probably cutting his lips, and dragged him down and over. Potter rolled with him on the ground.

Draco was already naked. And he had charms he could cast to make Potter relaxed and slick, so he did, and he cast the same lube charm on his cock, and raised Potter and jammed him down on his cock.

Potter yelped, but intimately familiar as he was with Potter’s sounds of pain from Quidditch games, Draco knew it wasn’t because he hurt from where Draco had entered him; more likely it was just the unexpectedness of it. And that made Draco reckless with anger, too. Potter ought to have come here _expecting_ this. He was the one who had begged Draco to fuck him last time. Had he thought it would never happen again?

Draco rolled himself over, every movement burning with grace, radiant as light from an exploding star leaking down his limbs. He put Potter on his back, staring up at him with wide eyes. Then Draco flexed his hips, and Potter’s face went scarlet as his back strained in response, his legs locking around Draco’s.

“What was that?” he hissed.

Draco grinned. He thought he knew what it was, but it was also clear that he must not have hit it last time they fucked, or Potter wouldn’t have sounded so startled. He angled himself a little, switching angles when Potter wriggled, and then he hit it again. Potter moaned in a ragged voice and turned his head a little to the side, apparently not wanting to look at the person who brought him such pleasure.

Draco wrenched his head back around. “I could stop, you know,” he said, and began to slide out, using all the willpower he’d mustered during endless months of braving the Dark Lord’s wrath and walking the edge of uncertainty to stay alive. “I could stand up and walk away, and then you could _try_ to use your hand or your wand to bring you relief—”

“Fuck you, Malfoy!”

“That’s one thing you’ll never do, no matter what happens,” Draco said with certainty, and mopped little bits of spittle off his face. “Your choice, Potter. In—” he let himself sink a little deeper, and knew from their twin gasps something about how it felt for Potter “—or out?” And he began to draw back again, focusing his attention ferociously on Potter’s knee to keep from looking at his face and yielding.

Potter thrust upwards himself, and pulled Draco back in. “Come on, then,” he said, and arched and wriggled.

Draco laughed breathlessly—Potter had managed to avoid giving Draco what he asked for even when there should have been no way he _could_ —and began to thrust the way Potter had probably wanted him to last time, thick and rapid. His gaze remained on Potter’s face as he did, the fading blush in his cheeks, the sweat, the different crinkles around his eyelids as he squeezed his eyes shut.

Potter was the most alive person Draco had ever met. It would never have been like this with anyone else, because they wouldn’t have responded to Draco’s demands with such insults, such fire, such shudders.

And Draco was going to make sure that Potter _stayed_ alive.

He grabbed Potter’s wrist and grabbed his fingers at the same time, roughly entwining them, holding on. Potter didn’t seem to notice what he was doing. He was lost in his own little world of grunts and harsh breaths, catching his chest and his nose against Draco’s skin. 

But Draco knew. Draco was the one in control. He drove down, he angled, and he held on and _made_ Potter come.

This time, Potter gave a muted sound of ecstasy only, but it was enough. Draco felt the spreading wetness between them and let go, following Potter in a thunderous spiral down, to the exhaustion that awaited them both at the bottom.

And the vindication.

*

By the time Draco stirred and opened his eyes again, Potter was starting to recover, but he was still limp. His eyes remained half-open, and so did his mouth, as Draco crawled slowly over to his robes and drew out the flask of the Lover’s Haze.

_Perfect._ This was the very situation Draco had hoped to land them in, where Potter would think the way he rambled about the plans to kill him some sort of sweet exhaustion brought on by the sex. And it would be a dream instead of a memory, later.

Draco carefully coated his lips with the potion. It tasted faintly sweet, with a sticky gloss on his lips. Draco shrugged at the slightly unpleasant feeling and crawled back to Potter, carefully pulling him around so that his head rested on Draco’s knees instead of lolling off to the side.

Potter stared up at him with glazed trust.

Out of everything—the risk of being caught by the Dark Lord, of having Potter be suspicious, of not having the potion work the way it was supposed to—that was what nearly undid Draco. And when Potter stirred and murmured his first name, instead of his last, Draco came the closest he ever would to regret about something other than his decision to be a Death Eater.

_No. I can’t. If I don’t do this, then Potter’s going to die, and not even struggle against it, because they had to convince him to be a martyr until the last._

Draco bent down and kissed Potter, slow and long and languid. Potter gasped and let himself be kissed, his tongue not even moving until Draco pointedly licked it a few times. Then Potter guided his own heavy arms around Draco’s neck and kissed back, mouth sprawled open and heart beating a little faster as the potion began to take effect.

“You know,” Draco whispered at last, when he could pry their lips apart, “I don’t perfectly understand this battle tactic that means you have to die. Can you explain it to me?”

Potter hesitated, and one last spasm of doubt wrung Draco, this time about whether he’d brewed the potion right. But then he began to murmur, and all Draco had to do was bend low enough to let his ears catch every word.

And calm his growing anger.

*

Draco didn’t send a Blood Letter this time. He had no way to send one to the person he needed this owl to reach.

He wrote it steadily during a time when he had Stunned the snake-guardian. And he didn’t care if the Dark Lord chose that moment to look out of the snake’s eyes. Or rather, he cared only because it would mean that he might be defeated on the verge of doing something important.

But he couldn’t worry about that right now. He couldn’t be worried about anything except the words unfolding on the paper, and then the silent fashion in which he made his way, under a Disillusionment Charm, to the top of the Manor that still served as an Owlery. The owl that hooted at him was silenced in a moment by another charm. Draco watched it wing away with the letter and the vial of his blood, indignantly.

Then he went back to his bedroom and woke the guardian-snake beneath his bed with an _Rennervate_ , before he applied himself grimly to the business of being an ordinary Death Eater for now.

It was as if his anger had given him luck. Soon enough, a day later, a Blood Letter materialized, a vial attached to it. 

The letter was different this time. For one thing, the blood was not Potter’s.

_Draco,_

_You are right on your assessment of the means that Dumbledore intends to get rid of the Horcrux in Potter. And I find your proposed adjustments…interesting._

_Severus Snape._


	6. A Better Bargain

Hermione had been crying for fifteen minutes.

Harry closed his eyes and simply leaned against her, keeping his arms around her. There were no words other than the blunt ones he’d used to explain what Dumbledore wanted them to understand. He had told them about the Horcruxes, and the way that Dumbledore had found the Hufflepuff Cup—getting inside Gringotts and taking it from the Lestrange vaults in exchange for promising the goblins they could have the Sword of Gryffindor when they were done with it. All of them were destroyed now.

Except him, and except Nagini.

“There has to be some other way,” whispered Hermione, as she had now whispered for the fifteenth time.

“I don’t see what it could be.” Ron, his eyes dull and stricken, leaned against the wall in the dim sitting room of Grimmauld Place. He looked a lot older than eighteen, with scars from battle on his hands and a half-missing ear. Then again, Harry thought he might seem the same if someone looked into his eyes. “Dumbledore wouldn’t just let Harry die, Hermione, you know that. He would have _looked_ to make sure that there wasn’t another solution.”

“And at least Dumbledore will be able to defeat Voldemort once he has my Invisibility Cloak,” Harry said, determined to make them look on the bright side. “Because he’ll be the Master of the Deathly Hallows, and Voldemort will be mortal.”

“How’s Nagini going to die, then?”

“I think he’s planning to kill her right after I—die.” Harry’s breath caught, but he coughed and went on. “He’s planning to have Snape pretend that he’s going back to the Death Eaters, and bring him and me along. Then we’ll goad Voldemort into killing me, and after that, Dumbledore will become master of the Deathly Hallows. The Cloak will be there. Snape’s going to pretend that he’s brought it as an extra enticement for Voldemort to forgive him.”

“Pretend,” Ron said, with skepticism deep enough to make his voice bitter. “Are we sure about that?”

Harry shrugged a little. He still didn’t like Snape much. He trusted him because he had to, and because Dumbledore did. “Then either Snape or Dumbledore kills Nagini, and Dumbledore will duel Voldemort.”

“I don’t like this.”

“I know. Neither do I.”

Hermione sniffled again. Harry grabbed hold of her and tried to give her something to remember, in the way his arms folded against her ribs and her shoulders and his hair overlapped with hers where it hung on her collarbone.

It wasn’t enough. He didn’t think it would ever be enough.

On the other hand, if it wasn’t enough, then nothing would be. Harry could only explain and touch so much. He would say good-bye to them with every word he spoke from now on, with every breath he drew. 

It would have to be enough.

*

“You’re ready, Potter.”

It was Snape who spoke. Dumbledore had become silent a little while before, eyes closed as if he was meditating. The shackles around his wrists—which were made with some spell that would dissolve when he started fighting—sparkled silver in the firelight of the kitchen.

Harry looked away from them and at Snape, who was studying him with the quietest expression he had worn around Harry in years. He held up a hand as Harry watched and a scroll unfolded from it.

_The will_. Harry had had to make a magical will leaving the Potter Invisibility Cloak to Dumbledore. Apparently, you could only really own that one of the Deathly Hallows if you inherited it. You had to fight someone for the Elder Wand, and apparently anyone could pick up the Stone, but the Cloak was special.

“You are ready to sign it?” Snape inquired. 

Harry nodded. He didn’t really understand why they’d left his signature, the binding part of the document, until last, only that Snape had suggested it and Dumbledore had gone along with it.

_Probably didn’t want me to panic and change my mind,_ Harry thought, as he reached for the quill that Snape held out to him, glinting with dark red ink. _Or he was just giving me a chance to go on thinking like I was going to be alive after this and the Cloak was going to be mine—_

Harry choked. His hand wavered. Snape, his eyes still quiet in that way that had nothing to do with mockery, steadied the will on the table, and Harry reached down and signed quickly, before he changed his mind. The part where he’d written Dumbledore’s name gleamed with fresh ink, he thought. But he knew it had been written at the same time as everything else, so his imagination was fevered and playing tricks on him.

He signed his name with the kind of scribble that would have made Snape scold him in Defense class. Or Potion class. Or anything before this year. Then he laid the quill on the table and nodded a little to Snape.

“I’m ready.”

Snape conjured the shackles for him that he had for Dumbledore, and cast a spell over the will that shielded it from sight where it lay. Harry blinked, confused for a moment by why he wasn’t rolling it up, and then wanted to snort at himself.

_Of course. The ink is still wet. That’s the last thing he wants to do._

And with his head hanging and his footsteps dragging, Harry followed Snape out the door of Number Twelve. At least he would present a convincing picture when they arrived at Voldemort’s lair, he thought glumly.

*

“There is no reason for me to forgive you, Severus. No reason.”

Harry, keeping his head pressed to the floor, shuddered. He had heard that tone in Voldemort’s voice before, and he knew that Voldemort was intrigued despite what he’d said. He wanted to at least kill Dumbledore and Harry while they were here, helpless, in front of him, even if he just killed Snape right after it.

“He revealed something I could not tolerate,” said Snape, his voice filled with his sneer. Also a bit of a shake, from the aftermath of the Cruciatus. Harry wondered for a moment whether he would ever be able to shake off torture like that and keep talking. “He revealed that he had never intended that I should survive the war free.”

“He intended to send you to Azkaban?” Voldemort laughed. Harry’s scar leaped to life, changing from a heavy weight on his forehead to one so burning that he cried out in spite of himself. He heard someone catch their breath.

_Probably at someone daring to interrupt Voldemort,_ Harry thought, and then he heard Voldemort’s footsteps pacing slowly towards him.

“Harry Potter,” Voldemort said, his voice dripping hisses in a way that might mean he was speaking Parseltongue. Harry never _had_ been good at telling. “At last.” He reached out and hooked his fingers around Harry’s cheekbones and ears, lifting his head. Harry screamed in misery, screwing his eyes shut.

_This is good. It means Voldemort can’t read my mind. He has to have eye-contact to do that, right?_

But the thought was a lost, drifting thing, somewhere near the back of his mind where all the other thoughts huddled. There were only two important ones as Voldemort turned his face back and forth like someone examining fine merchandise.

It _hurt_.

And he was going to die.

“I wonder,” Voldemort said softly, as if speaking to himself, “whether I should keep you alive for a while. See how long you could endure the Cruciatus. I dreamed of that, you know. While you were away from me. Give you to Bellatrix. She hasn’t shut up _yet_ about how she killed your godfather and wants the godson.”

Bellatrix cackled from somewhere across the circle. Harry decided that she must not mind being talked about like she was an annoying pet.

_Of course, she never has,_ he thought, and forced his eyes open. This was a dangerous moment. Dumbledore had been afraid that Voldemort would decide in favor of keeping Harry alive, if only because he might feel the subconscious pull of the Horcrux and want to preserve that part of himself.

So Harry’s task was to make Voldemort so angry that he would kill him right away. And Harry only knew one way to do that, for sure.

“Yeah,” Harry whispered. Voldemort focused on him the minute he started speaking. This time, the thoughts helped each other; Harry was in a lot of pain from his scar, but the thought that he was going to die, and with a purpose, pushed him into speaking. “But would she follow you so closely if she knew that you were really Tom Marvolo Riddle, Jr., named for your _Muggle_ father?”

There was a lot of stirring and rustling among the Death Eaters. But Harry couldn’t see them. Voldemort’s face filled his whole world.

Voldemort’s _horrified_ face.

“Yeah.” Harry chuckled, and then coughed. The pain felt like it was tearing into his lungs. “And there were a whole bunch of terrible secrets connected with your history, but not the kind you’d like _them_ to think there are. Right? Like your mother’s family being inbred to the point where they were all brainless, degenerate _freaks_.”

 _Oh, that’s a good one._ Harry knew just how to twist that word. And Voldemort’s face.

“And your mother being so in love with a Muggle she used a love potion on him,” Harry breathed. “And so heartbroken when your _dad_ abandoned her that she didn’t even think you were worth sticking around for. And you grew up in a _Muggle orphanage_ , stealing little toys from Muggle kids that you abused because they were more powerless than you—”

Voldemort stepped back with a wordless roar, and aimed his wand. Harry stared straight at him, eyes widening. This was it. He could tell. The pain in his head had become pure anger.

“ _Avada Kedavra!_ ”

It didn’t hurt. It didn’t hurt at all.

*

Harry opened his eyes.

It was strange. He hadn’t expected to open them again. He turned his head and looked around in interest, staring at the floor beneath him.

His body lay there, so motionless that Harry had no trouble accepting he was dead. Well, he had come intending to do that. He was more interested in other people right now, rather than the shell he had left behind.

Malfoy was moving. Even though Harry had no idea why he would come forwards—since no one except two other people knew he’d been fucking Harry and it would be dangerous—he was charging. An “ _Expelliarmus!_ ”, and Dumbledore’s wand, carefully concealed inside a fold of his robe, ripped abruptly away from him. The Elder Wand went flying to Draco Malfoy’s hand.

Harry stared. He knew he should feel something, but the emotions were distant things, circling his head like birds in flight, seemingly nothing to do with him. 

At the same moment, Snape lunged like a rabid dog, and cast a spell that made Bellatrix fall. Only then did Harry notice that Voldemort was _also_ on the floor. Maybe he’d been brought down by the destruction of his Horcrux. Chaos was starting to erupt among the Death Eaters.

Snape pulled two other things from his pocket and tossed them to Malfoy. One of them was the Invisibility Cloak. One was a small stone that Harry had to squint to identify. The Resurrection Stone?

_But he can’t use them. I left the Cloak to Dumbledore. I mean, maybe he could use the Stone. I think it only has to be given, not inherited…_

Which didn’t make any more sense of the fact that Malfoy was acting as though he was now Master of the Deathly Hallows.

But Malfoy knelt down next to Harry’s shell exactly as if it made sense, and held out the wand. He was whispering something, but Harry couldn’t hear what it was from this height. Curious, he drifted closer.

“I know you can come back. I _know_. I want you back, and I’m going to pull as hard as I can, tell Death that’s the only thing I want.” Malfoy put the Stone on his chest and wrapped the Cloak around one arm. He shivered as the arm lifted and fell back heavily, although Harry didn’t know why. Of _course_ it would fall back heavily. He was _dead_. “If the Stone can bring the dead back…”

It did, but only in distorted form. Harry wondered why Malfoy, who had grown up in the wizarding world and must have read the Tale of the Three Brothers when he was still a kid, wouldn’t know that.

It was such a strange thing to watch, that little huddle of silence in the middle of a battle. Snape and even Dumbledore—who had snatched up another wand from someone he’d fought—were taking down the Death Eaters, a lot of whom were running now that they thought Voldemort was dead. Or maybe it was because Voldemort was dead and they knew that he wasn’t the pure-blood he’d always claimed to be. Harry would have liked to think he’d helped in _some_ way before he died.

There was a strange, tickling sensation around him now. Harry found himself going lower and lower without meaning to, until he hovered right above Malfoy.

There were tears on Malfoy’s cheeks. Harry stared without comprehension. Then he heard the low, murmured words.

“I know you can come back, I _know_ , I know the theory, Snape talked about it, that there’s a chance the Killing Curse would only kill the Horcrux and you can come back, he thought it was Dumbledore’s plan all along…”

_But there wasn’t much chance, and you should have known that. We didn’t dare depend on it._

Harry thought that, and shook his head, and opened his mouth to tell Malfoy—he might be able to hear Harry, now that he was Master of the Deathly Hallows—that he ought to get over it and move on.

But suddenly he found himself sucked and pulled down a tunnel that didn’t hurt, back into a world of light and pain that _did_.

*

“You can’t do this!”

Harry was sure he was shouting at Malfoy. He heard the words inside his head, of course, but he also heard them in his ears, and that meant he _had_ to be shouting them.

But he might as well not have been, because Malfoy didn’t act as if he heard them. Instead, he seized Harry’s ankles and dragged him out of the way, towards the corner of the room. Harry tried to sit up. If he could just get Malfoy to stop this—he _had_ to die, or Voldemort was going to come back to life…

“The Horcrux is dead,” Malfoy mumbled in his ear, as if he had figured out Harry’s worries and thought he would soothe them that way. “No matter what happens, he won’t be immortal now.”

Harry turned his head to ask how Malfoy even _knew_ about that, and was in time to see Dumbledore take something from his pocket—it looked like a _fang_ —and stab it down. Nagini was in the way of the stab, and even though she reared, hissing, the fang went straight through her and down the middle of her body. She fell over, dead.

Voldemort was on his feet, but Harry’s scar wasn’t burning. Maybe that was because the fear on his face was stronger than the anger, though.

Dumbledore turned around, and there was a little space of silence between them. None of the Death Eaters dared to move. Except Snape, Harry supposed, and all he did was pick himself up and watch like the rest of them.

“It’s over, Tom,” Dumbledore said gently. “As you must have known long ago it would be.”

“You have no idea what I know,” Voldemort hissed. “You never did.”

“I wish I had known more, myself.”

Voldemort only stared back at Dumbledore, face so twisted that Harry couldn’t tell what he was feeling now. He put his hand up to his scar automatically. To his surprise, Malfoy caught his hand away from his forehead and kissed it fiercely.

“I paid enough of a price to get rid of the bloody thing,” he whispered into Harry’s ear. “It had better be gone now.”

Before Harry could ask another question, Dumbledore and Voldemort both moved at the same time. 

For a few minutes, it was like the duel they’d had in the Ministry Atrium. Spells whirled and clashed. Snape raised some kind of shield that spread out in a half-circle and covered Harry and Malfoy, and Harry was still too tired to get up and go anywhere. He watched in silence as purple and gold light danced back and forth, as Voldemort conjured snakes and Dumbledore Transfigured pebbles into mongooses that killed them, as other spells tore down the moldering curtains and sent whirling clouds of dust high into the air.

And then the battle began to turn. Whether because Voldemort was tired or had nearly died or was full of terror because now all his Horcruxes were destroyed, Dumbledore began to force him backwards, step by step, towards the door.

The strangest thing, Harry thought afterwards, was that Voldemort turned his head for one minute before Dumbledore cast a fire spell that consumed him and locked eyes with Harry.

Harry had no idea what he was trying to say in that silent gaze, either, before the fire landed and Voldemort’s body disappeared into the raging gold-white flames.

*

“So you substituted Malfoy’s name for Dumbledore’s in the will, so he could inherit the Invisibility Cloak?”

Harry’s head hurt. They were still in the manor house where the Death Eaters and Voldemort had had their headquarters—Malfoy Manor, Harry supposed it really was. Malfoy hadn’t exactly let him leave to go exploring. He sat there with his arm wrapped around Harry’s shoulders and looked smug.

“Yes,” said Snape. He was dropping small colored pebbles into a potions vial, and didn’t seem inclined to look at Harry. The potion turned white, and Snape nodded and handed it to Malfoy. He drank it and shuddered a little, but a wound Harry hadn’t even noticed, on his side, closed. Snape looked once more at Harry. “Draco knew that if he was the Master of the Deathly Hallows, he should be able to bring you back. That, of course, was based on the notion that it was the Horcrux part of you that would die, and your own soul wouldn’t wander far from your body.”

“But you could just have _discussed_ it with Dumbledore,” said Harry. That was what really puzzled him. Snape had gone along with him, and Malfoy had lied. It seemed like Dumbledore would have helped them a lot more if he’d just known.

Malfoy snorted. “He would be too afraid that it wouldn’t work,” he said. “Professor Snape told me—”

For some reason, Snape looked at Malfoy. Malfoy cleared his throat a little and continued, “ _Severus_ told me that Dumbledore thought you might well survive, but he wasn’t certain, and he wasn’t willing to gamble the future of the world on an uncertainty. This way, we could take the chance, and he could preserve his own innocence.”

“Dumbledore doesn’t—he doesn’t manipulate people like chess pieces. He does what he thinks is best.”

“Yeah?” Malfoy’s face tightened. “Well, I did what _I_ thought was best. And it worked out. So.” He pulled Harry harder against him.

“And you could have told _me_.”

“Too much chance the Dark Lord would read it out of your mind before the end. Severus told me that you’d never learned Occlumency well enough.”

Harry still felt as if he was groping his way back towards his real self. Certain things were still fuzzy and distant, like those moments when he had seemed to float above his body looking down at it. “How did you know about the Horcruxes and the Deathly Hallows, anyway?”

“You remember the last night we had?” Harry flushed, but nodded. “Well,” Malfoy added, “I brewed a potion called the Lover’s Haze. It’s as good as Veritaserum, but it leaves you feeling sort of drugged with pleasure, and it’s hard to tell from the effects of a _really_ good shag. So I gave it to you when we were done.”

“You drugged me when we had sex,” Harry said, even more numb now.

“ _No_.” Malfoy suddenly twisted around and knelt in front of Harry as Snape moved away, apparently bored with the conversation. Or the one they were about to have, Harry thought, eyeing Malfoy uncertainly.

Malfoy was holding both Harry’s hands. He looked intently into his face and said, “After. I had to be sure the sex we had was intense, so you wouldn’t notice the effect of the Lover’s Haze, but—I also wanted you willing.”

“I wasn’t willing in the beginning.”

“In the beginning, it was about humiliating you.”

“And now?” 

Malfoy, infuriatingly, shrugged. “I don’t know the answer to that,” he said. “I only know what the answer’s not.”

Harry stared at him and then looked away. The numbness was receding, he thought. The emotions were coming back. But it was as a crashing wave from the distance, and he wasn’t sure he would be able to survive it. He shivered, and noticed the way Malfoy’s arm immediately tightened around him.

“I have you,” Malfoy said.

Harry cocked an eyebrow at him. It was quiet, except for the moans of wounded Death Eaters. Dumbledore had gone to tell the rest of the Order of the Phoenix what had happened, and Snape was studiously ignoring them. In fact, he wasn’t even in the room, Harry saw. He’d gone to raid the potions lab, probably.

“You do have me,” Harry muttered. “And intend to keep me, do you?”

“I couldn’t let you die.”

That was, indeed, its own kind of answer. Harry turned slowly back towards Malfoy. The eyes that watched him were so vibrant with unexpressed emotion that Harry caught his breath.

Malfoy had saved his life, and fucked him, and bargained with him to have Harry offer himself up as a sacrifice, and yelled at him, and held him, and saved Harry when he desperately needed to think about something other than the Horcrux.

There wasn’t an answer right now because there wasn’t a simple one.

Harry could identify a few of the emotions coming back to him, though. They were gratitude, and more than a slight astonishment, that Malfoy was willing to fight so hard for him if it was just sex.

Hesitantly, he held a hand out. Malfoy clasped it, and held up their hands between them.

“We might start here,” Malfoy said. “Decide to—ignore other things in the past?”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t think that’s the right thing to do,” he said. “But we might discuss them. Later,” he added, and slumped back against the wall and closed his eyes.

Malfoy shifted him a little, giving him a more comfortable cushion to lie against in his shoulder. Harry half-smiled and leaned harder on Malfoy, making him suck in a complicated breath.

_Complicated. Not simple. Not what I envisioned when I thought about starting a family. And who knows what it’s going to be like now that Malfoy is the one who saved my life and the Master of Death?_

But Harry knew that, partially thanks to Malfoy, he didn’t have to think about any of it right now.

He leaned harder.

After a moment full of breathing as delicate and complex as the Hallows, Malfoy leaned back.

**The End.**

**Author's Note:**

> If so inclined, you may leave a comment for the author here or over on [LiveJournal](http://dracotops-harry.livejournal.com/316013.html).


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